


The Boy Behind the Bar

by JuxtaposeFantasy



Category: Chinese Actor RPF
Genre: Age Difference, Bondage, Bottom Wang Yi Bo, Dom/sub Play, F/M, Femdom, Pegging, Unprotected Sex, Vogue film
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:41:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27640880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JuxtaposeFantasy/pseuds/JuxtaposeFantasy
Summary: A forty-something singer at an intimate bar decides to take new steps forward in her life. One is to accept a new job, the other is to finally seduce the handsome bartender who has been resisting her advances for months. Based on the Voguefilm micro-movie staring Wang Yibo and Zhou Xun.
Relationships: Wang Yi Bo/Zhou Xun (fictional characters)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 64





	The Boy Behind the Bar

**Author's Note:**

> Aw, yisss. You knew this was coming, didn't you? Well, maybe not since it's m/f, but I can write that too, yo. Anyway, all the teasers for this Voguefilm had me rolling on the floor with possibilities and then they went all respectable on me in the final product. So...I had to write my own dirty version of events. Wow, how hot are these two, huh?

Her world is comprised of lines: 

The line between her home and the bar, which she’s walked over and over again like a physical mantra. 

The lines on sheet music which she reads for pleasure instead of books. 

And then there is the line of demarcation between her and Yibo, the young bartender. It’s the only line she is dissatisfied with.

She’s tried, over the months, to bend or blur that line. His response has been difficult to read. Sometimes beautiful things are like that, so much starlight glittering on their surfaces that you can’t see beneath to what makes them glow. He is, without question, the most beautiful boy she’s ever seen. But…she doesn’t want him to be only that. 

She often thinks, _if I would just push him a little harder I might get what I want_. But that’s another line that exists in her life and it’s one she’s been afraid to cross.

Afraid to, until now.

~~~~~

Earlier in the evening, she made him aware of her decision to leave. It was a gauntlet she’d needed to throw. Certain lines in her life have become trenches. She needs to climb out of them and walk with her head in the sky. She needs to remember how to live freely.

When she told him, she expected the usual from him—his gaze skittering away, a smile on his lips as though he didn’t quite comprehend. But he surprised her. When he sipped from her glass, deliberately placing his lips over the rim where she had drunk from, he willfully swallowed the line of division between them. 

Everything since then has changed.

She thinks about it as she sings her farewell song: his lips parting and permission pouring down his throat. The words he clearly wanted to speak, but lacked the courage to. 

As she works through her set, his eyes are on her as they always are, but she can tell his attention is different. 

Twenty. It’s the number of years between them. She feels every one of them and that’s a good thing. The way he’s looking at her now isn’t how he’s looked at pretty young things who’ve sat at the bar. She knows. She watches his interactions obsessively, hungry to understand what he wants.

She thinks she understands what that is. Now that she’s leaving, she doesn’t fear giving it to him. Or to her.

The last note of the piano hangs in the air. The applause lengthens out of respect for the moment. Both end, as all things do, though she’s not as sentimental as she thought she’d be. She walks the room, accepts congratulations or expressions of disappointment that she’s leaving. She appreciates every comment and will remember them. But her mind is already elsewhere, tugged ahead to a moment yet to unfold.

She makes her way to the bar, where he’s waiting for her with her favorite drink and more importantly, a look in his eyes she’s never seen before, though she’s wanted to. She is officially done with her employment here. There is nothing holding her back.

“Drink with me,” she says.

He looks down and begins polishing the bar with a rag, a small smile on his lips. “You remember what happened the last time I did.”

She smiles, too, though not at the memory of watching him sleep. Her memory is of the secret swipe of her fingertips across his parted lips, a touch he will never know of.

“We’ll monitor your intake,” she tells him. “I won’t let you lose control.” She takes a sip. “Not here, anyway.”

His hand slows. “If not here, then where?”

She steps over the now non-existent line. “My place. It’s time I took you there.”

His eyes, when he raises them, are wide. He’s twenty-three (she learned that by discreetly asking a hostess) but he looks eighteen. She crosses her legs as she feels the first tickle of lust.

“Your place,” he repeats softly, staring at her as though waiting for her to laugh and admit she was only joking.

“Yes. My place. I’d like to see you stretched out on my bed. Eventually.”

His lips part. He’s stunned. It’s a good look for him, she decides. She’d also like to see him panting. _Why,_ she asks herself, _have I denied myself the pleasure of this for so long?_

She leans her forearms on the bar and smiles up at him. “Don’t look so surprised. Did you think I would never figure you out?”

Though the bar is dim, it’s easy to see how he blushes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Hmm.” She picks up her glass. “Drink with me, Yibo. Let’s get to know each other differently.”

He regains his composure and studies her. She can’t seem to stop smiling, and it’s a smug smile, a cat-ate-the-canary smile because she knows she’s finally caught him. All those wasted months playing coy, when it was this—it was this all along.

Without a word, he sets the rag aside, plucks a pony glass from behind him on the shelf, and pours himself port from a dark bottle.

“Your taste is sweet,” she observes as they touch glasses.

“Maybe.” His eyes are on hers as they drink.

“You have a fondness for things older than you.” 

“Yes,” he says bluntly.

Her breath catches in her lungs. The heat in his gaze is something she’s imagined many a lonely night.

“Tell me more of your tastes,” she murmurs. “What do you enjoy from a woman?” When he hesitates, she adds, “I’m leaving tomorrow and taking any regrets with me. One night, Yibo. Let me fulfill your fantasies.”

“What of yours?” 

“Oh, I’m fairly certain they align with yours.” She sips from her glass, smiles inwardly when he mimics with his own glass. “Tell me what you like about me. I could use an ego boost.”

He shakes his head and drinks more port. “You don’t need me to tell you how beautiful you are. You see your face every day in the mirror.”

“Let me clarify: tell me what you think when I lean too close to you. Or those times when I touch your fingers as you’re handing me my cocktail. You never can hold my eyes, Yibo. Why? Tell me what goes through your mind.”

His fingers tighten around the glass. She likes his fingers very much. They’re blunt at the tips, very masculine, yet they’re also long and elegant. At night she’s imagined those fingers inside her. Two would be enough, probably. His palm is large. He could cup her fully between the legs while his fingers slid in and out of her…

She squeezes her legs tighter now, imagining his thumb at the top of her slit, slowly circling her bud. She thinks he would be good. No—she knows it.

“I wouldn’t disrespect you like that,” he says quietly.

She can tell he means it. It delights her even as it warms her. _In another life, Yibo, we could have had something special._

In this life, they have only this one night.

“Then tell me this,” she says gently, “will you miss me?” 

He looks up. There’s a hint of bleakness in his eyes. “Of course.”

She pushes her drink aside. “Then come home with me. Say goodbye in a way I’ll always remember you by.”

Members of the band walk past on their way to the front door. They wave at Yibo, who waves back. She’s already made plans with them for breakfast tomorrow. She watches Yibo instead, how he tries to use the distraction to buy himself time.

After the door closes behind them, he finishes his port. He takes his time rinsing out the glass and sets it on the drying mat. Without looking at her he says, “Let me close up first.”

She smiles and folds her hands. “I’ll wait for you.”

~~~~~

He’s tall in her living room. Or maybe it’s that she hasn’t brought anyone home in years and so he’s an anomaly not only in her apartment but also in her life. Whatever the reason, she thinks he looks handsome standing beside the window, limned by the yellow street lamp.

He’s nervous, which is understandable. He’s nervous, which makes her excited. Her heartbeat is racing as she lowers herself to the window seat and beckons him closer with a finger.

He’s still wearing his uniform because, like her, he lives close enough to walk to work. The vest and rolled-up shirt sleeves suit him, so she doesn’t tell him to take them off. And keeping him clothed like this extends the illusion that they’re still at the bar, still dancing around each other where they shouldn’t.

He stands beside the seat, looking past her as though he’s afraid to meet her eyes. She likes his trepidation. She knows it’s not true fear. The prominent bulge in his slacks is proof that he's okay with everything that's happening.

She lifts a hand to his hip and feels his body trembling. Liquid heat pools low in her own body. She can’t stop herself from pressing her palm flat and sliding it back. Though he works behind the bar and is mostly concealed from the waist down, she’s seen him while he restocks, has traced the lines of his body with her eyes plenty of times. To discover with her hand what she’s noted with her eyes makes her chest flush. She has to concentrate on not mindlessly pawing him.

He’s tight and leanly muscled. His buttock is just spongy enough to accept the press of her fingertips. He lets out a soft sound when she slides fingers down the seam of his slacks and she promises herself to explore that later. For now, she indulges in lightly squeezing the globe of his ass and measuring its curve with her palm.

“Jiejie,” he whispers.

She sees him start to raise one hand toward her, but she murmurs, “Not yet. Stand still for me. Be good for me.” She looks up at him. “Will you do that?”

His Adam’s apple bobs. “Yes, jiejie.”

 _Yes, jiejie._ She nearly moans from the power that rushes through her.

She takes what she wants from him. One hand slides up the front of his thigh, smoothing over long muscles, while the other continues to fondle his behind. She gropes him and strokes him and all the while keeps an eye on the bulge that’s growing in his pants. He looks big. He looks eager. All the more reason not to touch him yet.

“Turn to face me, please.”

He shifts so he’s now staring out the window above her head. His hips are directly in front of her. She holds them as she leans forward and brushes the tip of her nose against him. He sways. She sees him curl his hands into fists, muscles flexing in smooth forearms.

“How does it feel,” she breathes against the fabric of his slacks, “to have my mouth so close to you?”

The shudder that ripples through him is telling. It makes her smile.

“How does it feel?” she repeats.

“Difficult,” he says hoarsely.

She laughs at the answer. She nuzzles in closer, until she can make out the shape of him, pressing against the side of her nose. He’s steel behind the fabric, but warm and alive. “Have you pictured this in your mind? My mouth on you?”

“Jiejie…” He sounds desperate. Apologetic. Torn by indecision.

“You have,” she whispers. She presses a kiss to the side of him, riding his shiver. “You naughty, naughty boy.”

“How could I not?” he asks. “I see you every day, up on that stage, looking so beautiful…”

She finds his tip through the fabric and kisses it. “And yet you’ve said nothing. Done nothing. Shy boy,” she chastises him. “I guess it’s up to me to give you what you need.”

She unbuckles his belt and opens his pants. The muscles in his forearms are clearly straining now. He wants to touch. Probably wants to cup the back of her head and guide her where he wants her.

He won’t be getting that.

She unzips only partway, so there’s enough tension to keep his pants up. His erection, concealed by black underwear, arrows toward her. She’s amused to see that a damp spot has already formed on the cloth covering its tip.

“If I suck you,” she begins, pausing to listen to his choked-off groan, “will you behave yourself?”

“Yes,” he says immediately.

She smiles and pats his hip. “Let me clarify. If I suck you, if I put my mouth on you and lick you and pull you in deep—” she pauses again because the whimper he emits makes her dizzy, “—will you promise not to cum?”

“I wouldn’t,” he gasps.

“Not even if I tried to _make_ you cum?”

He looks down, brow furrowed.

“I want you dancing on the edge,” she tells him. “I want you seconds from completion, writhing in pleasure and agony, only holding out because I asked you to. Because you’re a good boy and you want to please me. Is that you, Yibo?”

“Oh, god,” he groans softly. He closes his eyes. He already looks like he’s in agony, but she knows there’s more road to travel. “Yes,” he whispers. “I want to please you. I’ll do whatever you want.”

Her nails dig into his hips as hunger seizes her. He hisses at the brief pain but doesn’t back away. Feeling contrite—apparently he can turn her into a beast without knowing it—she smooths her fingers over his hips.

“Be still for me,” she coaxes, “but feel _everything_.”

She pulls his underwear down and tucks it beneath his balls. His cock is as big as she’d hoped and it’s beautifully shaped. If his tastes weren’t so specific, she thinks he could entertain a different lover every night. No one in their right mind would refuse this.

But his tastes _are_ specific and she knows what they are, so she smiles to herself, knowing how rare this encounter is for him.

His glans is smooth and warm and already leaking from the slit. She drags her tongue around it to get a taste of him and to let him know what he’s in for. There’s power in sampling a man and she feels it fully. After licking stripes down his shaft, she pauses at the root of him and breathes deeply of his springy hairs. Above her, he groans and whispers a curse, acknowledging that he’s submitting to her control.

She takes him inside. She savors the slide of heat into her mouth, lashes fluttering at how well he fills her. He’s too much for her, in fact, so she uses one hand at the base to make up for it. By his panting breaths, he doesn’t mind at all.

She wants to devour him, but she takes her time, easing back and forth on him, keeping the pressure tight but her speed slow. His breathing turns ragged. He cards his hands through his hair restlessly, mussing the long, wavy strands. He laces his fingers behind his neck in a subconscious attempt to restrain himself. It gives her an idea.

She pulls off him with the same excruciating slowness, only this time she comes off completely. His hips move, try to push himself back into her mouth, but she only laughs and leans away. He looks down at her with a mixture of accusation and entreaty.

“Hold out your hands for me,” she tells him while she works at the fastening on her necklace. When he obeys, clearly confused, she says, “This is my favorite necklace. I bought it for myself after I earned my first gig, years ago. It’s cheap because I couldn’t afford anything better, but it’s very valuable to me for sentimental reasons. Do you understand?”

He nods, looking beautifully miserable as she carefully wraps her necklace around his wrists and relatches it.

“Please don’t break it,” she says to him, and gives his bound wrists a kiss.

She takes his cock in hand again and eases it back between her lips. Once restrained, he’s paradoxically freer with the noises he makes. He presses the necklace to his forehead as he whimpers. He groans against it when she tugs his slacks and underwear down to his knees so she can run her palms up the backs of his thighs. His breath hitches loudly when she eases a finger between his cheeks for the first questioning touch to his rim.

“Have you ever?” she whispers while she hovers at the tip of his cock, lapping at his slit.

“Jiejie…” His tone is clear: _please don’t ask me this._

It’s just too bad they aren’t doing things his way.

“Do you want to make me happy?” she asks. She presses against him, very lightly, not quite penetrating but promising.

He shudders. His erection seems to swell. The pressure, both verbal and physical, is only making him harder. “Is this…what you want?” he whispers.

She drops her forehead against his upper thigh. “It would drive me wild.”

She holds still, doesn’t move her finger or her mouth. 

Eventually he murmurs, “I want to make you happy.”

Her panties dampen. She decides she wants everything from him. She takes her hands off him and sits back carefully, lying across the cushions of the window seat. Holding his gaze, she very deliberately spreads her legs.

He doesn't question her, merely drops to his knees with a moan and immediately pushes his face up beneath her dress. She gasps, hands flying to the back of his head as he presses a kiss to her panties directly over her moistness. She takes a firm grip and pulls him in tight. His nose hits her just right and she _grinds_ against his face, ruthless and greedy. He gasps hotly through the silk as though stunned. Then he begins licking it. It's a terrible tease, good but not good enough. When his tongue swipes the bare skin of her thigh, she cries out. _That_ is what she wants. She tugs on his hair—probably painfully—urging him to push aside her panties and reach her naked skin. When he does, she bucks up violently, forcing his mouth on her folds. She groans as his tongue burrows inside her.

He's sloppy. She loves it. She's rough and demanding and he moans from it. She thinks of rolling off the seat and crushing him to the carpet, imagines sitting on his face and smothering him—she knows he would get off on it. As she's trembling and ready to give up all her plans and demand that he fuck her, she glimpses her necklace around his wrists, still binding him.

It brings her back to earth. This could be so much more. For both of them. Though it pains her, she pulls on his hair until he relents. When he raises his face, he looks dazed, as though he hasn't gotten enough air. His lips and chin are shiny. She moans softly at the sight.

"Enough," she pants with as much composure as she can muster.

Through sheer force of will, she rises to her feet. It takes him a few seconds, but he stands as well. The height difference between them is significant but she simply cups him behind the neck and he descends easily.

He’s flushed from her efforts, his hair tousled messily. She adores the size of his eyes, the tip of his nose, the fullness of his cheeks and those lips…she has to kiss them.

Despite where his mouth has been mere seconds ago, this is their first kiss and it feels like one. He's likely painfully hard from how much she’s teased him, but he moves his lips against hers delicately. He eases her mouth open and flicks his tongue against her upper lip. It tickles and makes her smile. His answering smile is playful.

His mouth opens wider, carrying hers open as well. His tongue finds her and suddenly it’s all about heat and wetness and plunging tongues. His mouth tastes like port and like her. Her own carries the sweet tang of grenadine. She rises onto her toes, wanting to climb into him, wanting to consume him. His breath fills her lungs. She sips at his moans. They crush together and she doesn’t care at all about the stains his naked cock is drawing on her dress.

When he tries to put his arms around her, he makes a sound of frustration when he rediscovers the necklace around his wrists. It’s that sound which brings her back to herself, reminds her of the fantasy being enacted here. 

She ends the kiss. He chases her, of course, because he’s handsome and being persuasive is par for the course. But she’s no little girl. With a smirk, she backs away from him, leaving him looking more flustered than before.

“Let’s go to my bedroom.”

~~~~~

She removes the necklace before she strips him. It’s important that he’s naked first, that he lies there on her bed, exposed and vulnerable while she looks him over. This is how to get that rosy flush on his cheeks and throat. This is how to make him lick his lips and struggle not to look away. When she puts him in his place like this, he feels her power. And because he is who he is, it makes his cock cling even tighter to his belly with arousal.

She touches him, of course, but fleetingly. This isn’t about satisfying him. It’s about getting her fill and in the process, torturing him with snippets of pleasure. She wants Yibo to hurt, wants him to yearn and strain, and most importantly she wants him to know that the alleviation of his suffering will only come by her hands. 

She caresses behind his knees and strokes up between his thighs. She scrapes her fingernails across his abdomen to leave red stripes she hopes will linger. Her fingers find his tiny, dark nipples and pinch them harshly. When he twists to get away, she places her palm on his throat and he stills, watching her with entreaty.

A slap to his inner thigh startles him but he quickly spreads for her. She gently lifts his balls out of the way and takes care as she spreads lube behind them and over the tight clench of his pucker.

“Won’t you take off your clothes?” he asks breathlessly as she eases the first finger inside him. He holds his breath as she presses in up to the knuckle and holds there, letting him get used to it.

“I will,” she replies “When it’s time. For now, we’re playing with you.”

She finds his prostate. It’s his sudden, choked cry that informs her. She smiles and presses against it. His impossibly large eyes grow wider before they roll back in his head. She watches him like a wolf as she presses and rubs, circles and taps, all the while cataloging his responses. She’s pleased to note that he very much enjoys prostate play.

Her fingers are small. She’s able to work three inside him with no problem. He’s embarrassed by how much he enjoys the penetration, she can tell. He covers his eyes with one arm and clutches the bedsheet with his other hand. His hips roll and press down, riding her fingers while his breath hitches excitedly.

“You should let a man fuck you,” she murmurs.

“No,” he gasps even as his cock spurts more precum onto a belly already slick with a puddle. “Only you, jiejie. Please.”

She can tell that if she were to introduce a third, Yibo would cave-in to her demands and let the other man fuck him. But though he would probably enjoy it physically, his heart wouldn’t be in it. There’s satisfaction in that. He’d do it for her, but only because it’s her that he truly wants. The thought sends a pulse between her legs. It’s time to move on. 

As he recovers, she tends to herself. Her heels come off first. Then she places one foot on the bed between his legs and slowly rolls her stocking down, giving him a glimpse of what’s beneath her dress. She does the other leg, taking her time, watching him watch the slow progression of the stocking gliding down her calf and off her foot.

Her dress is next. She’s used to being undressed by men, of being their prize to unwrap. What a revelation it is to do the gift-giving, to reveal her own body at her pace, to offer it to Yibo one limb at a time and receive his adulation with each inch of exposed skin.

When she’s down to her undergarments, he’s on his elbows, watching her with rapt attention. He still looks young, but there’s a very grown-up desire on his face that sets her skin alight. Her nipples are hard when she unhooks her bra and lets it slide off her arms to the floor. Yibo groans as he stares at her breasts. He looks ready to tackle her. 

Her panties come off next and it’s a relief to finally be naked and to feel air against the moisture between her legs. She’s wet from his mouth and her own juices, and her lust has been building merely from taking control of him.

The implement that she hasn’t used in a year is stuffed in the back of her underwear drawer. It isn’t until she eases the small end inside her and fits the knob against her clit that she fully appreciates just how turned on she is. She has to pause, one hand on the dresser, and fight off the orgasm that nips at her.

“Alright, jiejie?” he asks softly.

She smiles a bit wryly before turning to him. “I’m more than alright, Yibo. Let me show you.”

He’s apprehensive as she faces the bed and reveals the strap-on she’s wearing. He swallows. His fingers curl into the bedsheet. But he doesn’t back away.

“Come here,” she says softly. “In front of the mirror.”

Perhaps it’s cruel to take him this way, but she’s so greedy for him at this point that a little cruelty is inevitable. She waits patiently as he hesitantly moves in front of the dresser to face the mirror sitting atop it. He reminds her of a colt, skittish and tentative, as she runs her hands up his flanks. His skin flinches when she spanks both cheeks, just to see them jiggle.

Inspiration leads her to pick up her discarded underwear and one stocking. Holding his gaze from over his shoulder, she wads up her panties and holds them to his mouth. His eyes close as though he’s pained, but he parts his lips. And when she presses her panties inside, he moans throatily. To help him keep them in place, she stretches the stocking across the panties and ties its ends behind his head. The silk makes his already rounded cheeks puff up around the material. He looks boyish and sexy and completely at her mercy.

He’s shivering all over now. His fingertips are white where he clutches the edge of the dresser. She presses gently on the small of his back and he bows obediently for her, hips pressing out, back arching. His nostrils flare as he stares at himself in the mirror. He looks ready to faint. She sympathizes completely, her own body aching, as she takes his hips in hand.

At the initial pressure of the toy against him, he whines behind the gag. She knows it isn’t due to pain. She’s stretched him enough. It’s the _idea_ of being fucked by her that’s messing with his head.

She coos and rubs his back soothingly as she presses inside. He drops his head between his arms, moaning behind the gag, as she opens him up.

“All the way inside you,” she urges softly. “You can take it. Come on, pretty boy.”

He whines again and it makes her want to ram into him. But she cares for him and doesn’t want to risk it, so she keeps her pressure steady, gradually filling him until her hips come up flush. There, she waits, letting them both adjust to the new sensations.

Her clit is throbbing. The small end of the toy is curved and presses against her G-spot. She rolls her hips experimentally, and gasps at the way the toy moves inside and against her. Yibo, shuddering, appears to have experienced the same.

“What would you say if I told you I’ve imagined this for a long time?” she asks him as she begins a slow, careful thrusting.

Bleary-eyed, he looks at her in the mirror. He looks ready to cry, but she knows it’s from overstimulation rather than pain. She fucks a little harder and tries different angles. When he suddenly hunches up his shoulders, she knows she’s hit the jackpot. She’s unrelenting from that point on. She’s going to make him feel this.

“Pretty boys make me go crazy,” she confesses to him as she steers the toy against his prostate, keeping him writhing. “And you’re the prettiest of all, poor baby.”

He sobs into the gag and dances on his toes. She develops a good rhythm, fucking him with the toy hard enough to push his breath out, other times thrusting shallowly to electrify the nerves in his rim. Sometimes she holds herself all the way inside and grinds against his ass, working the toy around as she stimulates her clit. 

When things become more heated, she grips him by the hair and slams in hard enough to make his ass ripple. He groans when she uses him that way, as though he finds it deeply shameful and yet he can’t get enough of the roughness. Sometimes, she reaches around him and lightly strokes him, making him tighten up all over and plead behind the gag.

He lasts longer than she expects him to. The tension in his body suggests that he’s fighting off orgasm, which only makes her want to push him harder. When his cock begins to steadily drip, however, it’s a sign he’s reaching his limit. Her body sizzles with the realization that he’s on the verge of cumming from prostate stimulation alone.

“Imagine a beautiful young man,” she pants, “cumming from being fucked by a powerful older woman.”

Her own words bloom in her head and spread throughout her body. Her nipples tingle. He inner walls begin to clench. She feels the pressure rising and she chases it, using the toy to get her there, writhing without care for Yibo’s needs. She reaches her peak and cries out, her voice unfiltered, wanting him to hear how much pleasure he’s given her. Wave after wave of pleasure buffets her. Each convulsive twitch of her body moves the toy, which sets off another round. It’s a tortuous circle of ecstasy.

She can’t sustain it. With her legs on the verge of buckling, she pulls out of him. She fumbles to remove the toy and drops it to the carpet. She’s tingling all over and dizzy, but she has the control and presence of mind to untie his gag.

“Your turn,” she gasps, and drops onto her back on her bed.

He doesn’t need to be told twice.

He drops on her like a wild animal. He jerks her legs up around his waist, lifting her onto her shoulders, and slams into her. She cries out, overstimulated and instantly tumbling into a second orgasm. He doesn’t care, only pounds into her, extending her pleasure, amplifying it.

He fucks her like he’ll die if he doesn’t, no hint of shyness in his powerful, dominating thrusts. She’s nearly delirious from the explosive pleasure he’s forcing on her. This isn’t the same boy she seduced in the bar.

Minutes later he abruptly seizes, back arched, plush lips circled around a groan. Panting, she gazes up at the statuesque beauty he presents. She touches every part of him that she can reach, but she doubts he feels it as he shudders again and again, emptying himself in her heat.

When he’s finished, even though he’s clearly wrung out, he takes care to fall to the mattress beside her. She turns onto her side and strokes his sweaty hair away from his eyes as he struggles for breath. The fondness she feels for him in that moment is borderline maternal, but she doesn’t feel ashamed. Her emotions when it comes to Yibo are complicated, but in the end, they bring her happiness.

Recovered at last, he turns his head and studies her in silence. He brings blunt fingertips up to stroke her cheek.

“I didn’t use protection,” he whispers.

“For some reason I still use birth control,” she tells him, a little self-conscious. “I guess the heart still thinks I’ll find that special someone.”

“I’m clean. I haven’t been with anyone in…a long time.”

“That’s a shame,” she says. She cups his jaw. Brushes his lips with her thumb. “You deserve someone special.”

He doesn’t ruin the mood by suggesting they’ve found their special someones in each other. He doesn’t insult her by suggesting she change her mind and reject the job offer. Just as when he held his tongue at the bar, he understands now her need to move on.

She leans over him and kisses him. She will miss this, and she will probably question herself later, but for now, she has no regrets.

“Don’t play so hard to get,” she reprimands him with a smile. “Let the ladies catch you every once in a while.”

“Not many of them are like you.”

“No,” she agrees, “but you might be surprised by who they turn into in private.”

He settles. Nods. She believes that he’ll try. Beneath his shyness beats a lonely heart.

“I have breakfast with the boys,” she tells him, “but that’s still several hours away.”

From the corner of her eye she watches him.

“May I stay until then?” he asks after a quiet moment.

She smiles and curls around his arm. “I wasn’t going to let you to leave.”


End file.
